Secret Dead Guest Post! Russel D McLean's "McGenre"

Welcome to the Secret Dead Blog, Tartan Edition.

You will notice I am not Duane Swierczynski. Why? Because a) I have an accent you’re probably straining to understand even on the screen and b) my name is much easier to spell. Although people do insist on adding an extra L.

My name is Russel D McLean. I am a Scotsman. A crime writer. A general miscreant. And I am here today as part of a two week blog tour to promote my latest novel to hit the US, The Lost Sister; a dark, violent PI novel in the vein of Ross McDonald and Lawrence Block but set in modern-day Scotland.

Of course, tours like this get dull if I spend every shilling myself, so what I’m doing is talking every day about different topics to do with the writing of the books or crime fiction in general. I figured given the fact that Duane straddles so many genres at once, I’d talk a little about genre today.

There are two questions I get asked most often at events.

Charles Willeford's Turnaround

I love the story of how Charles Willeford wrote his first novel, High Priest of California, recounted by Lou Stathis in his introduction to the 1987 Re/Search edition. Seems that a roommate was tired of hearing Willeford always talk about writing a novel rather than actually writing the novel. "Aw, you ain't never gonna do it," said the friend, "so just shut up." Willeford realized: "I had no choice after that. I had to start writing."

At the time, Willeford was stationed at the Hamilton Air Force Base about 30 miles north of San Francisco. So on weekends, Willeford would travel down to the city in his power blue Buick convertible and take a room at the Powell Hotel, right at the base of the famous cable car turnaround on Powell Street. He'd divide his time between writing and fun. "Being thirty years old, "Willeford said, "with a blue convertible, a blue uniform, and blue eyes, I was just having the time of my life." More important, Willeford finished the novel. It was only 35,000, but that's exactly the right length for a book like High Priest. (Incidentally, James M. Cain's immortal The Postman Always Rings Twice was also 35,000 words.)

Remembering Holly (1995-2011)

Secret Dead Blog lost a treasured member of its team today: Holly, our 16-year-old black domestic shorthaired cat.

Holly (named for Buddy Holly) has been around since the beginning. I brought her home on Sunday, March 19, 1995, the same week I was promoted to the position of staff writer at Philadelphia Magazine. So for as long as I've been earning a living as a writer, Holly's been by my side. She used to curl up around my neck as I'd write short stories and magazine pieces, sometimes wrapping herself around my computer monitor, just to make sure I stayed focused and on task. She'd knock over the wastebasket in the bathroom whenever my attention would drift. She'd steal my ties from the rack (as if to say, Someday, kid, you're going to have a job where you won't need to wear a tie). She'd growl and hiss at any human females who happened to visit my home. (You ain't got time for the dames. Write, damn it!) She even tried to dismember the human female who would eventually become my wife; this initial skirmish turned into a years-long battle of the wills that settled into an uneasy truce... then, finally, grudging mutual respect. Eventually, Holly accepted the Human Female Who Became My Wife as part of the Secret Dead Blog team, and even tolerated it when I and the human female produced two children. But inside, Holly knew her true place; her claws were sunk deep into the operation.

In Case You're Wondering... No, the Thrill Never Does Get Old

Just a short while ago the UPS man dropped off a box containing ARCs of my next novel, Fun & Games, out this June from Mulholland Books. I cut open the box with a knife (the kitchen scissors were in the dishwasher). Carefully, I opened the flaps and just stared at them, nestled around plastic air bubble pouches, like 10 babies in synthetic afterbirth. I couldn't even bring myself to touch them, at first. The Bride was the first to reach in and pick one up. After I knew it was safe, I did, too. I checked the front, and the spine, and then the back. (Yeah, this sounds paranoid, but this happened to me once, and the I've never quite gotten over it...) Everything seemed to be in order. It was a real book, with all of its fingers and toes.

Or at least, it's just about ready to become a real book. ARC readers will find typos and such that we've caught, and I've fine-tuned a little bit here and there. But it's really amazing to hold the damned thing in my hands in bound form.

Like I said, this never, ever gets old.